


Spoils

by morning_coffee



Category: Original Work
Genre: Begging, Captivity, Dark, Dirty Talk, F/M, Face-Fucking, Forced Orgasm, Impact Play, Kneeling, Sexual Coercion, Shame, Unwilling Arousal, Vaginal Fingering, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 23:50:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14068284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morning_coffee/pseuds/morning_coffee
Summary: Tharlan looks her up and down, sizing her up, and there's something in his eyes that makes his gaze feel more abrasive and heavy than the ties that bind her wrists behind her back. "Look who has graced us with her presence. If that is not the lovely Kiara, daughter to King Maruun."





	Spoils

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maypop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maypop/gifts).



They drag her into a room and push her down on her knees with rough hands that don't care if they leave bruises. The stone floor is cold and coarse under her legs, scraping the bare skin. 

Kiara bites her lip and swallows her protests, but the faces of the two guards standing at her sides now are already imprinted on her mind. Once she's free again and her people have come to squash Tharlan's army, those two will be among the first to die, slow and painfully – and she'll be there, watching. 

For now, she pays them no mind, all her attention fixed on the man sitting at the pompous desk in the center of the room. Back home, desks like that are for bureaucrats and accountants, cowardly pen-pushers who wouldn't know one end of a sword from the other, and no military leader would slouch with his feet propped up on his desk and his uniform half-undone. No man of honor would ever face a prisoner like this, and certainly not one of her standing. But then, from what she heard of Tharlan, he's not exactly a man of honor. 

She's heard the stories, of course. Who hasn't? Horrified accounts of his cruelty and ruthlessness, cautionary tales that warn not to venture too close to the contested lands near the border, as well as appreciative legends of his military genius and prowess in battle, told in whispered voices that fall silent when Kiara and the palace guard approach. But no matter if it was fear or forbidden admiration shining through, Tharlan always seemed larger-than-life in those stories. And yet, coming face to face with him, he's just a man like any other. He seems younger than she thought – a good decade younger than her father, perhaps, with muddy blond curls and a couple of days' worth of stubble in dire need of a shave. He looks more like a farmer than an officer, too unruly and sloppy, only the long, faded scar down his left cheek and the piercing hardness of his blue-eyed stare hinting at a life of warfare.

She can't quite contain a sneer. It earns her a smile that's wolfish and mocking as Tharlan looks her up and down, sizing her up. There's something in his eyes that makes his gaze feel more abrasive and heavy than the ties that bind her wrists behind her back.

"Well, look who's graced us with her presence. If that's not the lovely Kiara, daughter to King Maruun." His accent is faint, but it makes her name sound harsh and foreign. 

So they do know who she is. She hadn't been sure, from the disrespectful, almost careless way the guards had handled her. 

She tilts up her chin to meet the general's stare head-on. "It's Princess Kiara to you and your men. The proper title is _Your Highness_ , as I'm sure you're well aware, General Tharlan. As you can see, I'm granting you the respect of addressing you properly, and I'd appreciate if you would offer me the same courtesy."

Despite her indignation, her tone remains crisp and painstakingly polite: a dispassionate attempt to put them on even ground as much as possible given her situation; a civilized way to begin the doubtlessly frustrating negotiations that will surely follow, with her being used as a pawn to get her father to make concessions. 

She doesn't quite know what response to expect, but it's not for Tharlan to throw his head back and laugh out loud, full-bellied and joyous, as if she'd told a bawdy joke. The men standing next to her join in, and the knowledge that it's _her_ they're laughing about drives a shameful rush of blood to her cheeks. 

Tharlan swings his feet off the desk and stands, crossing the room towards her. "My apologies, Your Highness," he says, and his tone is so soft and calm that for a moment she thinks he's sincere. 

Then there's an ugly, hollow sound and her cheek stings with the force of the slap he delivers with the back of his hand. 

"But whatever makes you think you'll be treated with respect here?" He raises an eyebrow, as if he's genuinely curious to hear her answer.

"My father—" she begins, but he interrupts her before she can make her point.

"— is safely locked away in a prison cell. Did you think you were a bargaining chip? Sorry, love, all you are is spoils of war." 

For the first time that night, Kiara's certainty falters and fear rears its terrifying head, clenching around her throat like a collar that's too tight. 

She can't help it: when Tharlan reaches out towards her, she flinches. Satisfaction flashes in the cold blue of his eyes, and she hates herself for showing him her dread, hates him even more, with an intensity that surprises her. She was brought up to always moderate her emotions, cool them down – displeasure instead of white-hot rage, contentment instead of exuberant joy. She hasn't hated anyone before, not like this, with such a brightly burning flame.

Tharlan lets his knuckles trail down the side of her face where her skin is still burning from his slap. His touch is deceptively gentle until it isn't, grabbing her chin in an iron grip that she can't twist out of, no matter how much she tries to get away. His thumb strokes across her lips, once, twice, lightly at first, before pressing down and forcing her mouth open. 

He pulls away too fast for her to bite him, but the hand around her chin doesn't waver.

"Tell me, _Your Highness_ , have you ever sucked cock? Or is that not worthy of a princess? What a shame that would be, with a mouth like yours." His thumb traces her lip again. It stings, and she realizes she must have bitten down hard enough to draw blood in an effort to keep quiet. "Those sweet lips are made to be stuffed."

Kiara's heart hammers in her chest, and the noise is so loud that it's almost all she can hear. When she speaks, her voice sounds far-away and faint. It surprises her how steady and calm it is. "Anything you put in my mouth is going to get bitten off."

There's nothing kind about the smile he offers her. "Yeah? I don't think so, Princess. You'll open up like a good girl and do exactly as I say, because if you won't, your father isn't going to survive the night."

The threat makes the blood in her veins turn to ice water and she freezes. "You wouldn't dare. My father is a king. Even if what you said is true and you captured him, you'll be expected to deliver him to your queen."

Tharlan shrugs. "It's war. People die. Even kings. Perhaps he did not survive the battle. Or he couldn't deal with the shame of captivity and took his own life. Who's going to question my story?" His grip shifts until his hand is in her hair. He pulls her head back, tightening his fingers to the point where it becomes painful. "So what's it gonna be, Princess? Will you behave?"

She wants to spit right at his smug face and tell him to go to hell, but she can't risk her father's life. There's no way out, she realizes. Dread settles in her stomach like a stone, and she refuses to meet his eyes as she gives a jerky nod, as good as his tight grip allows.

He leans down until his beard rasps against her cheek. 

"Good girl," he whispers. His breath brushes her ear, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. 

When he backs up, his hand stays buried in her hair, even as he opens the fastenings of his pants with the other. His cock springs free, half-hard already and shiny with moisture around the top. He's standing so close that she can smell the mixture of musk and leather and the faint chemical tang of cheap soap underneath.

Angry tears sting in her eyes at the helplessness of her situation. Kiara holds them back by sheer force of will. She's not going to give Tharlan the satisfaction, she won't. He's not gonna see her defeated or stumble. Resolve hardens in her. If he thinks he can break her like this, he's mistaken. 

Still, when he takes himself in hand and guides his cock to her mouth, she almost balks. He trails it along her lips, coating them with warm, sticky liquid like a perverse kind of lipgloss. 

"Open up." 

She obeys, hesitantly opening her mouth just a fraction, but that's all it takes. He gives her head a sharp tug towards him and pushes his cock between her lips, wedging them wide open. Without her hands to steady herself, she loses balance and falls against him, the motion driving him further into her mouth, nudging against the back of her throat and making her choke. 

Her eyes water and a helpless noise bubbles up her throat. 

He uses the hand in her hair to push her back and steady her, and for a moment she's almost grateful. Until he pulls her back, driving his cock into her mouth again. And again. And again. Every time he pushes into her, the weight on her tongue feels larger and firmer, and the salty-bitter taste becomes stronger. 

"That's it," he mutters. "Just like that. So pretty with your lips all puffy and wet and my cock down your throat. Knew you'd be good at this."

The words make her flush harder, make her feel angry and ashamed and paradoxically proud all at once, and part of her wants to show him how good she could really be at this. Wants to give him the best damn blowjob anyone has ever given him and take away his chance at humiliating her. But he doesn't even give her the chance to act, just fucks her mouth with merciless precision like she's something to be used rather than an active participant, a steady rhythm that never stutters and barely leaves her enough room to breathe.

And then, suddenly, just when she expects him to thrust forward again, he steps back. His cock slips from her lips with a wet noise, and she only just avoids falling on her face because he's holding her up. 

The smile he gives her is self-satisfied and victorious, and she tries to take some measure of comfort in the fact that he's flushed and breathing hard, arousal blowing his pupils so wide that the blue of his eyes is drowned out by the black. _I did this_ , she thinks, even if it's not really true, even if it wouldn't any kind of victory even if it was.

He lets his fingertips fall to her lips again, spreading the mixture of pre-cum and spit back and forth. "I'd love to finish down your throat, but since you're so keen on courtesy, princess, I wouldn't want to disappoint you by being so selfish."

He pulls her up by the arm with a bruising grip. "Come on." 

It's only when she's back on unsteady feet that she notices the guards are gone. She didn't realize they'd left, didn't notice him sending them away, and even though part of her is glad they weren't around to witness her being used like this, even when she knows they were an additional threat, the idea of being alone with Tharlan is almost worse.

He pushes her towards the desk. She lets him manhandle her, too out of it to realize where this is going until he pushes her upper body down on the polished wood surface and pulls up her skirt. 

"No, I—" It's a futile struggle to stand up. With her hands still tied behind her and his palm between her shoulder blades pushing her down, all she does is wriggle ineffectively on the desk, its hard edge digging uncomfortably into her skin.

"Stop it." His palm connects with her ass. Unlike when he hit her before, there's barely any force behind it, more warning than punishment, but it still smarts. She can't see his face from this angle, but his tone is almost amused. "I thought we'd agreed on you being a good girl."

He sounds so condescending that she wants to twist around and scratch his eyes out. "Fuck you," she hisses, forgetting decorum and manners that have been drilled into her for two decades. 

All it does it make him laugh. "That's the spirit."

Another light slap hits exactly the same spot as before, and then her legs are being kicked apart by a booted foot nudging her shins. She feels her underwear being pulled down, followed by the sound of fabric tearing, and then she's naked from the waist down, her bare ass up in the air. The thought of what she must look like, on display like this, makes her want to run and hide. But she can't. There's nowhere to go and the stakes are too high, and all she can do is close her eyes and wait until the ordeal is over.

She expects him to get on with it fast, push into her without preamble like he did when he fucked her mouth. When instead of his cock, she feels his fingers rubbing along her tender parts, soft like a caress, she jumps a little. They part her folds and flick across her clit, the calluses rough against the vulnerable skin. 

Kiara clenches her fists in the bonds and tries to ignore how good it feels. It's just a physical reaction, she tells herself, just her body reacting to a stimulus, nothing to be ashamed of even when she feels herself growing wet. Still, she swallows down the noises that want to escape her throat, and a sharp flash of relief washes over her when he stops.

She braces herself for pain, but it's only one of his fingers that slides inside her. It's thick enough, but she's so slick that it breaches her almost effortlessly, as if her body wants to make room for him. As much as she hates it, she can't hold back the instinctive little whine spilling from her lips.

His chuckle is raw and quiet. "You like that, don't you?"

"Like hell I do," she hisses, but it turns into a horrible, awful moan when he starts moving, dragging the finger out almost completely and then driving back in with renewed force, twisting it lightly, stroking her insides.

When he pulls out again, he lets it rest against her entrance, and she's helpless to stop herself from rocking backwards against it. 

"Yeah, I can see how much you hate it." He rubs her clit again, making her shudder, before he shoves two fingers into her, so fast that it pushes her further up the desk. She keens at the stretch. "You're gagging for it, aren't you? My fingers, my cock... you just want something filling up that tight little hole of yours."

He begins fucking into her in a ruthless, steady rhythm, and once she's relaxed enough, her juices easing the motion, he starts scissoring the fingers to stretch her. He's too damn good at keeping her right on the edge between pleasure and pain, making her _want_ despite the fact that she hates it. She's given up trying to be quiet, too worn out to hold back those incoherent little moans and whines and mewls.

And yet when he steps away and tells her, "Ask for it," she bites her lip and refuses to obey the command.

He slaps her again. This time, his palm lands right across her throbbing, empty cunt. Her body convulses, legs jerking and giving way underneath her, and she's glad for the solid desk holding her up.

He relentlessly plays with her clit while his thumb pushes into her, pressing down against her inner walls. Dark amusement glitters in his eyes as he leans in and brings his face close to hers where it's twisted to the side. 

"I can do this all night. Bring you right to the brink and then stop, again and again, until you're ready to promise me anything. Betray your people, your father, everything you think is so important to you." He scrapes a nail against her clit at the same time as he curls his thumb. " _Beg_."

Kiara screws her eyes shut. "Please—" Her voice sounds as broken as she feels. 

"Please what?"

If she were a stronger person, she'd tell him to stop. She'd tell him to go to hell. She'd tell him to do whatever he likes with her, that it wouldn't matter, that he couldn't break her. But she's not a stronger person, and those horrible, nimble, talented fingers of his are driving her insane. "Please fuck me. Make me come."

She refuses to look at him as she says the words. That, at least, she's not going to give him. 

It doesn't stop his laughter, or the satisfaction in his tone. "As you wish, Princess."

His cock feels like it's splitting her in two, even after all this preparation, even after taking two of his fingers with ease. He felt big in her mouth, but it's nothing compared to how huge he feels breaching her, inch by inch. She's grateful for the pain, chasing it, letting it ground her and focus on something else but the sharp pleasure driving her crazy.

He doesn't relent until he's all the way inside of her, and it's only when he finally stops that she notices his hands on her hips, holding her so firm and digging in so deep that she's sure she'll have finger-shaped bruises tomorrow. Or is it already tomorrow? She's lost all sense of time, doesn't know if it's been minutes or hours since they pulled her into Tharlan's room and she foolishly expected negotiations and treaties. It feels like half a lifetime ago.

At her back, Tharlan's breath comes rough and labored. He starts moving, slowly enough that the burn isn't agonizing, and his fingers are back where she least (most) wants them, handling her clit as deftly as she imagines he handles a weapon. The thought should stop her cold, but not even the reminder that he's been out there on the battlefield killing her people is enough to drown out the pleasure.

It builds and builds, his cock pistoning faster and faster now that her body has accommodated to its girth and size, and his finger teasing her with maddening light touches.

Her climax hits her hard, white-hot pleasure that ebbs into a floaty feeling like she's not in her body any longer. She barely feels it when his thrusts falter, when he drives into her one last time and spills his seed, only hears his shout as if it's coming from far away.

The post-orgasmic haze doesn't last long, though. When it fades, it leaves her feeling cold and exposed and so full of shame that she wants to curl into a ball and die. 

It hurts when he pulls out of her – none of that wonderful, horrible pleasure/pain mixture from before, but pure discomfort, a deep ache that leaves a queasiness in her stomach. The sound of him doing up his pants is comforting, but almost immediately after, his hand is back between her legs. 

She jerks away from the touch. "Don't."

"Hmm. Really? Thought you developed a taste for it." He pulls her up by her tied wrists and chuckles at her attempts to get some distance between her. "I could call in the guards. Have them fill you up nicely, stuff you airtight. There are enough of them to fuck all your holes at once. Wouldn't you like that?"

She promised herself she wouldn't beg him for anything ever again, but the thought alone makes her recoil. "No. Please don't. Anything just— Not that. No-one else."

His smile is slow and satisfied, as if her response was just what he wanted to hear. "Anything, huh?" 

He steps closer, his hand cradling her cheek in a gesture that speaks of possessiveness. She can smell herself on his fingers. "Well, luckily for you, Your Highness, I don't share what's mine." 

Her brief moment of relief is cut short when she realizes that there is no ending date to this, not unless he tires of her—and she's smart enough to know that this is not an outcome she even wants to imagine.

End.


End file.
